A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(39)

“Hard to tell.”

Armand exhaled, and Jean-Guy could hear the strain.

“Annie and Honoré are safe here, and I’m just sitting at HQ with my thumb up my—”

“Got it.”

“I’m coming down to help”—he glanced at the clock—“if I can get off-island before they close the bridges. See you soon.”

“But—”

But the line was dead.

“Jean-Guy’s coming down to help,” he reported to the others.

“Dumb-ass,” said Ruth.

But Armand could see relief in the ancient face, illuminated by the flames from the log fire.



* * *



“I’m sorry sir, you’ll have to go back. We’ve closed the bridge.”

Beauvoir flashed his credentials, and the officer stepped aside and waved him through, alerting agents along the span to let this vehicle pass.

Just as he made it over, Beauvoir heard a huge explosion. He winced and instinctively ducked, even though he knew what it was. In the rearview mirror, he saw a plume of snow and ice shoot into the air.

A few minutes later, some distance down the autoroute, he heard another, more muffled explosion.

The ice was packed in tight, the St. Lawrence beginning to flood. If this didn’t work …

As he drove, he monitored the secure S?reté channels, while dynamite went off in a ring around the island and across Québec.

At least Annie and Honoré were safe on high ground. And he’d return to them by dawn. Even if he had to swim across the St. Lawrence to get there.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


It had been decided by Ruth, apparently in consultation with a duck and a bottle of scotch, that sentries would be placed on the bridge to sound the alarm should the Rivière Bella Bella break through the sandbags.

Reine-Marie and Armand chose to take the first shift.

At the door Ruth made sure their heavy raincoats were well fastened. “You have your whistle, in case something happens?”

“I do,” said Reine-Marie.

“And your Boys’ Big Book of Flooding?”

“Always,” said Armand.

“Then we’ll be fine,” said the old poet.

“Fucked up,” said Gabri.

“Insecure,” said Olivier.

“Neurotic,” said Clara.

“And egotistical, yeah, yeah,” said Ruth. “Now, no necking, you two, and be home by midnight.”

“Yes, Mom.”

As the rain and ice pellets hit her face, Reine-Marie called to Armand, “Heck of a date.”



* * *



Inside, a discussion had begun around the fireplace. What to take, if an evacuation order was given.

“I’d take Gabri,” said Olivier.

“I’d take the espresso machine,” said Gabri. “And some croissants.”



* * *



At the bridge they stood, backs to the wind, shoulders hunched, hoods raised. Reine-Marie put on her flashlight and pointed it into the Bella Bella.

“It’s rising,” she shouted.

“Oui.”



* * *



“I’d take my Jehane Beno?t cookbook,” said Myrna. “The photo album. The Lalique vase. That hand-knotted Indian rug—”

“Hold on,” said Gabri. “Do you have a moving van? Can we use some of it? I’d take my grandfather’s Victorian sofa.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Olivier. “The only good thing about a flood wiping out our entire lives is that it’d take that monstrosity with it.”



* * *



Armand and Reine-Marie walked over the stone bridge. And back again. Over and back. Pausing every couple of minutes to switch on the powerful flashlight and check the level of the Rivière Bella Bella.

Then continue on.

Like guards on a lonely frontier.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Armand could barely hear his own thoughts for the sound of the water rushing below and the ice pellets hitting his coat.

What he thought about, as he walked back and forth, back and forth, was Vivienne. Out there somewhere. And Vivienne’s father. And Annie.

He tried to keep their daughter out of it, knowing how dangerous it was to personalize investigations. But perhaps his resistance was lowered by the cold, by the competing stresses, by incipient exhaustion, but he couldn’t seem to stop putting himself in Monsieur Godin’s place.

Suppose Annie were missing? And everyone he turned to for help, while nice, didn’t actually help? If he pleaded with them, begged them, and all they did was smile and offer soup?

It would be a nightmare. He’d be mad with worry.

Pausing again at the top of the bridge, he took Reine-Marie’s hand. Suddenly feeling the need for comfort.

The water in the beams of light was frothing, foaming. Like something rabid. It scudded along the lip of the shoreline. Rising faster than they’d expected. The jam, just a little way downriver, out of Three Pines, must be getting worse.

And then.

Armand heard a low hum, almost a moan, from Reine-Marie. As they watched, the Bella Bella broke up and over her banks.